


I Tear My Heart Open, I Sew Myself Shut

by Swordy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordy/pseuds/Swordy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And there’s the rub, because you know something is seriously wrong when a hallucinated, smart-mouthed vision of the anti-Christ is a more reliable source of information than your brother.<br/>Trapped by a tornado, Sam has to deal with the reality that Dean’s drinking problem is worse than he thought...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Tear My Heart Open, I Sew Myself Shut

**Author's Note:**

> Non-rambling author’s note: Unbetaed so all mistakes are mine. Title is taken from ‘Scars’ by Papa Roach. Comments and reviews are gratefully received.  
> Disclaimer: Sadly not mine (unlike the mistakes).  
> Genre/pairing: Gen.  
> Warnings: Bad language and angst.  
> Spoilers: Up to and including season 7. Set just before 7x16 ‘Out With the Old’.  
> Word Count: 11,319

“This is all your fucking fault you know.”

Sam stops in his tracks at his brother’s angry pronouncement. For a moment he can’t find anything to say in response to that because really? _Now_ Dean is playing the blame game? His shock is simple; they’ve both made a whole heap of shitty decisions over the years but never, even when the shit has hit the fan, have they ever gotten into who turned on the fan and who left the shit there in the first place.

He studies his brother’s profile, recognises the brooding anger but is still surprised to see it there. Sure, this is inconvenient, but they’ve endured worse. Sam glances around at the twenty or so other people sharing their misfortune, fortunately all too caught up in their own lives to pay attention to two bickering brothers from out of town.  

Dean’s still awaiting a response but instead of ‘ _well we wouldn’t be in Indiana if it wasn’t for you_ ’, Sam opts for the slightly less inflammatory, “I’m sorry, okay?”

The unexpected apology seems to take the wind out of Dean’s sails so rather than a follow up comment, he returns to silent brooding in the corner of the basement that he has claimed as his territory for however long they’re going to be stuck here.

Dean’s right, in that it had been Sam’s idea to leave the motel to interview witnesses right before the tornado hit but Sam’s not incorrect either with his unvoiced recollection that his brother had suggested this job in the first place, when he’d first read the news article that had all the makings of a demon.

Logically Sam knows they should be sitting here counting their lucky stars that they were near to somewhere as well prepared as Bixby’s community centre when the tornado warning was given. Even Dean can’t argue that they’re in not only a place of safety but a _well-stocked_ place of safety because the locals, in preparation for the approach of the tornado had ensured that there were provisions aplenty in the basement here.

Sam also thinks Dean’s anger is a little misplaced given the fact that the locals have welcomed them, as complete strangers, into their sanctuary and have already made clear that they will be looked after as if they were family. Given their usual shitty luck, Sam reckons this has got to be bordering on a minor miracle so Dean’s foul temper seems doubly strange.

Obviously appearing the more approachable of the two of them Sam has already had a conversation with some of the townsfolk about what’s likely to happen. Richard – a large bear of a man with the bushiest eyebrows Sam has ever seen – had been the first to introduce himself, explaining that he moonlights as the community centre’s janitor when he’s not busy running the hardware store in town and has so for the last forty years, in which time he’s seen his fair share of tornados.

His confidence had been reassuring and he had been certain that if the tornado passed through town when expected, they’d be safe to leave in twenty-four to forty-eight hours but failing that, they’d have food enough for an entire week for at least thirty people so there’d be no danger of them going short any time soon, even if they couldn’t leave when planned.

He’d then clapped Sam heartily on the shoulder, casting only the briefest glance at Dean, and told them he hoped they liked Sudoku before walking away. Dean had sworn under his breath at that point causing Sam to hiss his brother’s name because _fuck knows_ the last thing they need is to be viewed with any more suspicion that they were already arousing, which was when Dean had roundly pronounced it all Sam’s fault that they were in this mess in the first place.

An hour later and Dean is still wearing that same dark expression. Sam knows by now that he’s unlikely to come straight out and say why this situation has gotten him so mad so he goes back over the events of the day to see if he can work out when exactly his brother’s mood changed so dramatically.

So okay... they’d split and interviewed their witnesses and he can picture Dean grinning after that so nothing there. Then the tornado warning. There had been no smiling at that point but Dean had been calm and practical: _“Let’s do what they say, Sammy. We’ve got no chance of hunting down this demon if we get taken out by some fuckin’ wind.”_

Inside the community centre’s basement they’d nodded greetings until Richard had taken it upon himself to be the welcoming committee. They’d introduced themselves, used their cover story and been told that they were in the safest place in town and that there were provisions aplenty while they rode out the storm.

Dean had still been smiling at this point because he’d made a joke about hoping they had plenty of beer and... _oh fuck._ He glances over in time to see Dean slipping Bobby’s flask back into the inside pocket of his jacket, face still like thunder, and it all falls into place even though the part of Sam that still sees Dean as his infallible big brother is saying _don’t be so ridiculous._

Dean’s pissed because they haven’t got any alcohol in here? Awash with indignation Sam wants to march right over there and ask Dean if he’s fucking _crazy_ for behaving like a whiny little bitch over something so... well, so _crazy._

Sure, Dean drinks a lot but he does too and hell, it’ll probably do them good to have a little sober time. And besides, it’s a couple of days at the most – it’s hardly like he’s asked Dean to give it up for fucking Lent, is it?

Several hours later and there’s no sign that Dean has accepted his fate and is going to be a little less pissed about it. He’s barely said two words to Sam and he’s been civil but not exactly warm and friendly to the other people who have approached with offers of food and (non-alcoholic) drink.

They’re barricaded in now, ending any thoughts Dean might have been entertaining about making a break for it. Sam is working his way through a John Grisham novel he found when Richard’s wife, Susan, pointed him in the direction of a trunk someone had helpfully marked ‘entertainment’, but he keeps stealing glances at his brother and several times he’s caught him worrying Bobby’s flask, even if he’s not actually drinking from it. It makes Sam wonder how much is left in there.

Riding that particular train of thought for a little longer, Sam realises he’s never actually _seen_ Dean re-filling the flask and the more he thinks about that, the more it bothers him. They buy beer and hard liquor in front of each other all the time but it’s clear that Dean is buying _extra_ supplies when he’s not around, and why would he do that unless it was something he wanted to keep a secret?

Sam then starts trying to think when he noticed his brother was drinking more and realises he has no ready answer. Obviously it’s been harder recently to pay attention when he’s devoting every ounce of concentration to working out what’s real and what’s not, especially with Lucifer himself riding shotgun, but even if he thinks back, before the days when his thoughts slipped through his fingers like grains of sand, he can’t honestly find a clear starting point.

Dean’s return from Hell is a logical place to start but Sam knows he couldn’t say for definite because he was so wrapped up in Ruby and his quest to see Lillith obliterated, and the thought that he was too self-absorbed to see his brother’s pain is mortifying.

He pictures his brother’s shaking shoulders, voice raw with grief as Dean finally let him into what Hell had been like and he thinks _no shit_ Dean’s drinking worsened then because where better to escape that agony than the bottom of a bottle?

Admittedly their role models weren’t exactly, well, _role models_ when it came to alcohol. Both their father and Bobby had regularly sought comfort in drink and, now he thinks about it, Dean’s growing habit of starting each morning with whiskey rather than OJ had only earned a slightly raised eyebrow from Bobby when he’d noticed it, when in the real world this would have had most family members reaching for the yellow pages to find the number of the nearest A.A meeting.

Of course he could be wrong about everything.

He closes his book and moves over to where Dean is hunched in the corner. Enforced inaction would usually see Dean cleaning his guns or sharpening his knives but even if he had the equipment here, he wouldn’t be able to do anything anyway because nothing says ‘hey, we’re normal!’ like revealing a large cache of weapons and proceeding to treat them with the care you might normally afford a newborn infant.

So without his usual outlet for his frustrations Dean is shuffling a pack of cards as if he’s about to deal a hand.

“Hey,” Sam says as he approaches. “You want a game? We could play for cans of Spam. I hear it’s delicious in soup.”

This earns him a small huff of laughter from his brother but not quite a smile. He sits down opposite Dean and gestures for the cards, which Dean hands him without comment. Sam cuts them then shuffles them once more before starting to deal.

“Rummy,” he announces.

“ _Rummy?_ What are we, twelve?” Dean grumbles but he picks up the cards anyway.

The play a couple of turns in silence before Sam decides they may as well discuss the whole reason they’re in Indiana to begin with. The other refugees from the tornado are in family or friendship groups so there’s no one nearby to overhear them. At least if they do a little work here, they might make a breakthrough that they can use once the tornado passes and they can get out of here.

“Did you get anything from the daughter?” he asks as Dean picks up a card, scowls at it and discards it on the pile.

“Nothing, except she’s got shitty taste in men.”

“Didn’t fall for your charms then?”

Sam’s rewarded with a grunt in reply and he laughs to himself as he collects a third seven in his hand.

“Well, the contractor was definitely spooked. He looked like he might shit himself when I asked if he’d noticed anything unusual about her eyes. He begged me not to tell his supervisor in case they thought he was smoking pot again. Apparently he’s been cautioned for it before.”

“Nice,” Dean remarks gruffly, still studying his hand. “So we’ve got a demon holed up somewhere in Pleasantville that we can’t do anything about because we’re trapped in here while the wind blows over our heads.”

“It’s a little more than a bit of wind, Dean.”

“Yeah? Now you know how I feel being trapped in the car with you after you’ve eaten your own weight in burritos.”

Sam laughs and, happily, Dean does too. They settle into another round of cards with the air a little clearer between them. Sam knows he’d have stopped worrying at this point if he hadn’t been aware of how badly Dean’s hands are shaking the entire time they play.

OoOoO

_God,_ I want a drink.

He’s barely able to get another thought past that looping whine in his brain, like every time he tries to think about something else it gets swallowed up by this solitary notion that demands his undivided attention. It’s getting louder too, like it’s taking exception to being ignored and will try the tactic most popular with toddlers and trust fund brats and keep raising the volume until his resolve wears away and he _gives it the fucking candy already._

His stomach started cramping an hour ago and he wants nothing more than to lie on the floor, his knees to his chest to try and ease the pain but he knows it’ll only make Sam worry and frankly the last thing his brother needs right now is more to stress about.

He hates when Sam’s eyes slide to a corner of the room, when he knows from what Sam’s told him, that Lucifer is trying to engage him in conversation and that’s seriously so fucked up that troubling his brother with his reaction to a bad taco seems somewhat trivial. But _fuck_ it hurts and god, if only he had a drink then he could forget that his stomach is clearly trying to exit his body with a sledgehammer and _why is it so fucking cold in here?_

He gives himself a mental pep talk, which is straight out of his dad’s well-used handbook on ‘How to Man Up’ but the voice that delivers it is weak and passionless and it isn’t long before that terrible, incessant whine that insists on a drink starts up again. He studies the cards in his hand – he only needs one more to win – but the numbers are blurred and how can he be sure he only needs one more to win when he can’t remember what game they’re playing anymore?

OoOoO

Another hour has passed when Richard comes over. He addresses them both but looks mainly at Sam, Dean’s earlier _leave me the fuck alone_ vibes obviously still fresh in the old guy’s mind.

“Food’s up,” he says cheerfully. “Hope you’re good with chilli.”

Sam looks across at his brother, knowing that in the food category of Dean’s ‘Things That Are Awesome’, chilli is at least a top five. Dean however simply nods, smiles politely and asks if any help is needed.

Worryingly Dean’s apparent lack of enthusiasm extends to actually eating the meal and after observing him for several long moments as he pushes the food around on his plate but doesn’t actually put any of it in his mouth, Sam asks sharply under his breath, “What’s wrong?”

He realises he sounds a little irritated but other people are watching Dean too and, fuck, the chilli is _good._

“I’m not that hungry, okay?” Dean growls back.

Sam lets it go but his concern grows a little more as he realises that, _huh_ , Dean’s eating patterns have changed too in that he’s either ravenously hungry or refusing food altogether. When he glances at Dean again he’s taking small mouthfuls but Sam knows it’s purely for show and that’s _insane_ because it’s _Dean_ and _food_ and they’ve always been a match made in Heaven as long as he’s known his brother.

On closer inspection he could swear Dean’s sweating lightly even though he’s made no indication that he’s hot, but Dean catches him looking and scowls so Sam returns to his own meal without comment.

“So you said you’re college students?” the woman on his right - Cathy, Sam thinks her name is – asks him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, going for his best wholesome young man facade. “We’re doing a project about the history of Bixby for a class.”

Clearly he’s rocking the ‘not suspicious’ look because she proudly starts to recount how she’s fourth generation Bixby stock in glorious and lengthy detail. Across from him he can _feel_ his brother rolling his eyes. A quick glance confirms that Dean isn’t exactly playing along, considering everything she’s telling them should translate to a damn good grade, because he looks seriously fucking bored, and if Sam thought that kicking him under the table would help them he would, but somehow he doubts it given Dean’s obvious shitty mood.

He realises they’re being watched and glances down the table to see a woman studying them carefully. It’s actually Dean the woman is looking at but when she sees Sam looking back she turns away quickly and starts a conversation with her neighbour. Sam makes a mental note to try and find out who she is and he mentally curses Dean for drawing attention to them with his behaviour.

As the evening draws on they listen to the tornado updates. From these accounts, it should hit somewhere around the early hours of the morning. Richard’s wife, asks them if they’ve ever experienced a tornado and Sam shakes his head. She makes a sympathetic face.

“Bad timing, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am, but we appreciate the town’s hospitality, don’t we, Dean?”

He glances round at his brother who clearly hasn’t been following the exchange. He’s definitely pale and sweating and Sam wonders if Dean is coming down with something, which figures because Dean is a _miserable_ invalid. He briefly flashes back to those long weeks while they waited for Dean’s broken leg to heal and mentally shudders. When Susan leaves, he decides to risk getting his head bitten off.

“Hey, you okay, man?”

The question seems to catch Dean off guard. He forces a smile, nods his head but the action is tense and the expression more of a grimace. “Just a headache.”

“Want me to get you something?”

_A drink, Sam. I need a motherfucking drink okay?_

Another nod.

Sam goes off to find Richard, whom he has determined to be the de facto leader of the group. He curses that they’ve not got their own medical kit with them and hopes they’ve got some strong painkillers because if Dean’s asking for something then he _must_ be feeling bad.

Richard hands over some Tylenol and enquiries if his friend’s okay. Sam thanks him and assures him that he is. When he turns to leave, the woman from earlier is watching him. He gives her a small smile and she smiles back and looks away. When he returns to his brother, Dean takes the pills with a gratitude that alarms him.

“Do you want anything to wash them down with?” he asks, not sitting back down in case Dean says yes.

“Don’t suppose there’s any beer?” Dean says hopefully and Sam knows he’s attempting to sound light and jovial but unfortunately has missed the mark by a mile. Desperation seems a better description.

“Didn’t take you for Marilyn Monroe,” he replies, also aiming for levity but struggling because of the nagging feeling that won’t go away, even though he can’t name exactly what his concern is because it eludes him every time he thinks he’s gotten close enough to pull it from the miasma that is his mind these days.

Dean gives him a look but it’s half-hearted at best and the worry takes a tighter hold because Dean doesn’t even seem to be tracking the conversation well enough to make any kind of bitchy comeback. He’s almost relieved when Dean gets down on the bedroll they’ve each been given and falls asleep. Around them, other people are bedding down for the night. Conversations are muted, lights are dimmed all against the backdrop of the raging winds overhead.

With Dean asleep Sam returns to the John Grisham novel. He’s immersed in the world of Harry Rex Vonner when a voice floats out of the lamp-lit gloom.

“You know Grisham used to work seventy hours a week yet he still got up at five am every day to work on his first novel. You should start a novel if you’re going to spend so much time trying to stay awake to avoid me, Sam.”

Sam doesn’t turn because he doesn’t want to _see_ Lucifer as well as hear him. When Lucifer speaks again, he sounds amused.

“Oh cheer up, Sam. Things could be worse. At least the demon’s not trapped in here with you.”

He can’t help but look now because maybe the demon’s in a different meat suit to the one they suspected and wouldn’t that be just their luck? Lucifer, however, holds up his hands in a gesture of placation.

“Hey I can swear to God if you think that would help, but I’m telling the truth, Sam. The demon’s in the preacher’s wife, just like you suspected.” He chuckles to himself. “Don’t ever try to tell me demons don’t have a sense of humour.”

Sam focuses on his book but the words have stopped making sense so he drops it into his lap and concentrates on grinding the meat of his palm, even though he knows the action has lost its power. He hears Lucifer’s short bark of laughter but when he turns in the direction the voice came from, there’s no one there.

He thinks about what Lucifer has just said and just knows he’s telling the truth - just like in Idaho. He also knows it’s batshit crazy to be contemplating the validity of your hallucination’s information but before he can analyse it any further his attention is drawn back to his brother as he begins to stir.

This is an area he’s more familiar with; Dean has never slept well since Castiel pulled him from the pit and even though he’s clearly got a truckload of issues himself following his own trip downstairs, he’s never relived it during sleep the way Dean seems to.

He watches as Dean twitches, frowns, looks distressed. It passes though and he’s about to return to his book when the now familiar feeling of being watched crawls over him again. He knows it’s not Lucifer because the hallucination never trips his radar but it _is_ the same woman from before and _fuck_ , he’s really going to have to say something because this is getting seriously awkward.

“Can I help you?” he asks, playing for friendly but knowing there’s an edge in that question that carries a hint of _what the fuck are you looking at?_ She looks a little embarrassed before she makes the decision to approach him.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m Sarah Gillespe, one of Bixby’s family physicians. I just wanted to check if your friend is okay.”

Sam glances at his sleeping brother, almost wishing they’d gone with a different cover story that would have allowed them to be related.

“Uh yeah, he’s fine,” he replies, “Why’d you ask?”

If possible, she looks even more uncomfortable. “Oh, well, he just looked a little pale at dinner.”

_And sweating and shaking and not eating_ Sam’s mind helpfully supplies. At that moment Dean stirs again, his face contorting in pain at whatever horrors he’s dreaming about and although there’s no logical reason for it, her last comment triggers Sam’s defensive streak because honestly? she might be the most awesome doctor on the fucking _planet_ , but she’s not going to be able to prescribe anything for coping with having been to Hell as your end of a deal to resurrect your brother who was run through right in front of you.

“Yeah, he’s fine. He did say he thought he might be coming down with something.” And then, to ensure she understands she’s been dismissed, he adds, “but thanks for your concern.”

“Oh... okay,” she says, sounding unsure as she prepares to head back to the group she’s bedding down with. “Well if you need anything, don’t hesitate to give me a shout.”

“Thanks. We won’t,” he replies, wishing this encounter had never happened because if she was in any way was suspicious of their wholesome student cover story before, his poorly-masked hostility has surely solidified the doubts in her mind.

OoOoO

She doesn’t risk glancing back at him. His tone had been polite but the aggression is rolling off him in waves and she isn’t about to invite a confrontation by insisting she be allowed to help. His dismissal hasn’t alleviated her worry any; the other boy, Dean, is clearly unwell and she has seen nothing to contradict her suspicions as to the reason for his illness.

He’s a striking looking boy, as is his friend, but they’re sure as hell not students. Dean, who’s clearly the older of the two looks like he’s seen several lifetimes’ worth of crap and knows there are several more round the corner with his name on. She’s caught him looking at the other boy with a pained expression, which makes her think that they might be brothers, or maybe even lovers because there’s a bond there that seems stronger than friendship and he’s clearly trying to conceal his suffering, presumably for fear of burdening the other young man, who looks as if life hasn’t been kind to him either.

When she pictures Dean at dinner and then later on she can’t help but think of David and the recollection is like a physical hurt. Her only uncertainty now is whether Dean himself and his companion know what’s wrong and, if it’s as serious as she thinks, they can get out of here before his situation worsens. 

OoOoO

The tornado hits at about four am. The most recent update is that it is an EF4, which Richard had explained was ‘going to make for a rough ride’. The noise is deafening, the tension worse. Sam envies those that appear to be sleeping through it but Richard assures all the anxious faces that they’re in the safest place possible and that it should be over within the hour.

Despite the older man’s confidence it’s alarming to hear the sounds of destruction going on overhead. It’s a reality that there is going to be devastating damage to Bixby and Sam feels deeply for the people down here who have no idea whether their homes and livelihoods are surviving the storm. His whole world however is in here, but sadly it’s no less battered.

Dean blinks at him repeatedly as he comes to, as if he’s not sure he can trust what he’s seeing. Once his brother seems a little more with it Sam explains about the tornado, even though the terrifying din of screeching metal makes his words somewhat redundant. Ten minutes later Sam is startled when Dean asks him the same question he asked upon waking, namely ‘when will we be able to get out of here?’

“Dude, you asked me that already. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

Dean shoots him an irritated look. “’Course I’m fucking okay, if you discount being trapped in a freezing cold basement with a load of fucking do-gooders.”

Sam glances around anxiously to see if anyone has overheard them because insulting your hosts who’ve frankly been nothing but good to you, isn’t going to win them any friends and Dean’s got no reason at all to be hostile towards them. Dean’s definitely sickening for something because cold is the one thing this place isn’t.

Dean!” he hisses, “I don’t get why you’re acting like such a dick. What the fuck’s the matter with you, huh?”

“Nothing,” Dean snaps back as he gets to his feet and, if anything, he looks like he’s sweating a little more heavily. “I’m just peachy so do me a fucking favour and quit asking, okay?”

Sam notices his brother’s right hand creeping upwards as if he’s going to get something from out of his jacket’s inside pocket and the action seems so habitual Dean doesn’t even realise he’s doing it until he sees Sam looking. He catches himself, scowls, and the open hand becomes a fist before he stalks away, a sotto voce ‘ _goddamnit_ ’ trailing in his wake.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” Lucifer says affably from where he’s perched atop a stack of boxes marked ‘Halloween Costumes’, swinging his legs like a fucking kid. Annoyed that he’s even turned to look, Sam resists telling Lucifer to shut up because there’s no point him and Dean _both_ looking certifiable to the other people present even if, arguably, they both are.

He wonders if he should follow Dean but then figures they already act like enough of a married couple without perpetuating the comparison by chasing after him and demanding that they sort this out. Besides, Dean’s probably only gone to the bathroom anyway.

OoOoO

_Drink drink drink drink drink drink drink drink drink drink drink._

Why won’t it fucking shut up? He staggers into the bathroom cubicle and bangs the door shut before collapsing on toilet, his head in his hands. The action doesn’t help, simply because his hands are shaking so much he can’t adequately clamp them to his head to stop the rattling in his brain.

His stomach is still trying to make its complaints heard and he knows with depressing certainty that he’s going to vomit even though he hasn’t really eaten anything for hours. He reaches into his pocket for Bobby’s flask and emits a sound that’s half-growl, half-whimper when he remembers that it’s empty and _fuck fuck fuck,_ why didn’t he refill it this morning? It’s all Sam’s fault for giving up his morning run he thinks bitterly.

When his brother was doing his whole daily Lance Armstrong thing it was easy to nip out undetected and buy or steal an extra couple of fifths to stash in his duffel and he _knows_ he should be more worried that Sam seems to have stopped his valiant attempts to work through his own shit but this pity party is strictly for Dean Winchester with no ‘plus one’ on the invite.

Despite the nausea he’s caught offguard by the need to vomit and he crashes to his knees, flips the toilet seat up and empties the meagre contents of his stomach until his throat burns and hot tears spill onto his cheek as he finishes up with some painful dry heaves. The sudden action jars the leg that he and a hand grinder never allowed to heal properly and the lance of pain that shoots up the limb steals his breath away and paints stars before his eyes despite the fact that they’re closed.

His heart is racing and he wonders vaguely how fast it can go before it gives up altogether. It feels like a lifetime before he risks opening his eyes again and when he does everything’s so blurred that he closes them again quickly. He groans into the crook of his arm, alarmed to discover he could cry for something to drink, just to take away the shitty taste of vomit and the pounding in his head and he tells himself that’s _all_ it is so he can ignore the part of him that’s just a little bit frightened right now.

OoOoO

Sam figures he may have gotten Dean’s intended destination wrong when, almost an hour later, he still hasn’t returned; he’s not worried though because surely even Dean can’t get himself into too much trouble in a basement populated only by canned goods and townsfolk who appear to make Mister Rodgers look like _a complete bastard_ and he figures Dean has just gone somewhere to cool off.

He’s stunned therefore when Dean appears and hurries over to him, his face pale and eyes flicking around watchfully. He’s favouring his right leg and Sam feels a flicker of guilt that Dean ditched his cast too early in order to go haring after him. Worse though he appears _shaken,_ which is a look that doesn’t suit Dean since he wears it so infrequently.

“Sam,” Dean snaps as he gets close. “We’ve got a fucking problem.”

“What kind of problem?” he replies, keeping his voice low.

“The demon’s here.”

“Here? As in...?”

“As in, in here with us and a fuckload of innocent people. What? You don’t believe me?”

It’s only then that Sam realises he’s been frowning and he shakes his head in answer to Dean’s question even though he’s wondering why Lucifer would have lied.

“Who’s it in?”

Dean’s pacing, his hand dragging at the stubble on his lower face. “One of the kids,” he says, his expression a mixture of weariness and pre-occupation that speaks of mile-a-minute strategising.

They’re both armed, albeit not as fully as they usually prefer when on a hunt, but they’ve got enough and there’s bound to be salt down here in amongst the provisions. The main issue is the demon’s choice of meat suit because in all their years hunting, they’ve never found a trouble-free way of saying ‘ _hey, can we borrow your kid for a minute? We just want to exorcise a demon that’s possessing their body but don’t worry they’ll probably be okay’_ and, funnily enough most parents aren’t too thrilled about strangers wanting to perform strange archaic rituals on their offspring.

“You’re sure?” Sam asks, regretting the question the moment it’s left his lips because it was asked more because he can’t believe their shitty luck than doubting his brother, but Dean’s expression tells him _exactly_ how he’s chosen to interpret it.

“Oh, I’m _sorry_ ,” Dean says angrily, “I forgot I’d spent two years fucking around at college while you were hunting and gaining valuable experience – oh, wait, _you_ were the one that went to college weren’t you? So how about you _shut the fuck up_ and try and figure out how we gank this demon, okay?”

Sam blinks, stupefied, because he honestly can’t remember the last time Dean threw Stanford in his face.

“Wow. Someone’s got PMS,” Lucifer comments helpfully from somewhere behind them.

Sam swallows hard and grits his teeth because a satanic Jiminy Cricket is _so_ not what he needs right now.

“Okay, okay,” he says, keen to get things back on track if that’s even possible. “Which kid is it?”

Dean’s eyes narrow, like he’s so furious he’s trying to work out if this is just another attempt to antagonise him and Sam wonders when his brother’s moods went from mercurial to flat-out psychotic.

“How the fuck should I know? Kids all look the fucking same.”

“Well, is it a boy or a girl?”

Dean’s mouth opens but snaps shut before a response finds its way out, anger radiating from his pallid features. Sam wants to ask ‘ _how the fuck can you not know?’_ but instead opts for, “Stay here. I’ll go and check it out.”

Fortunately of the twenty or so people down here only five of them are children so it shouldn’t be too hard to suss out which one of them is carrying a passenger. When he crosses the room, only two of them are awake, which makes one of them the obvious candidate or how else would Dean have known?

The children, a boy who looks no older than eleven or twelve and a girl of about eight, are sitting with their parents and, fortunately for Sam, near the trunk where he found the John Grisham novel earlier. He heads over there, smiles in response to their own smiles of greeting and announces he’s come to find a book for his friend who isn’t feeling so great.

He makes eye contact with the boy and asks him if he has any recommendations. The boy smiles shyly and shrugs, says he likes Harry Potter. The response is barely out of his mouth when Sam mutters, “Christo.”

Nothing.

The boy frowns whilst his sister giggles. “Excuse me?”

Sam huffs a laugh, feeling stupid and more than a little thrown. “Don’t mind me. I say ‘Christo’ if I think I’m going to sneeze. It’s one of those stupid family things.”

He selects a book and manages to extricate himself without further embarrassment, making his way back over to his brother.

“It’s not them.”

“Told you,” Lucifer chips in.

“Huh?” Dean replies and he looks seriously confused. And then suddenly, as if it’s just come back to him. “Well it must be one of the other ones. I know what I saw, Sam.”

Sam lets out a frustrated sigh. The other kids are with the doctor that approached him earlier, her own children, presumably. “There are only three other kids,  Dean, and they’re both asleep so d’you wanna tell me how you know the demon’s in one of them?”

Before Dean can respond, Richard comes over. His gaze flicks between them, recognising the tension. “Boys, sorry to disturb you but we could do with your assistance. We’ve had confirmation that the tornado has cleared town but there’s a lot of damage out there so we’re going to see if we can get out of here to assist with the rescue operation. However we need to check it’s safe to leave first because the community centre has probably taken a severe hit too.”

Richard has been speaking to Sam and when he turns to look at Dean, he does something of a double-take, his features creasing into a frown.

“Son, you don’t look so good. Maybe you should sit this out and we’ll just take Sam here.”

“That’s not a bad idea, Dean,” Sam says firmly, hoping his brother will interpret it correctly as _you stay here and keep an eye on the demon and I’ll see about getting us out of here._

“Fine,” Dean replies, bringing the discussion to an abrupt end. Sam gives him one final look before making after Richard and joining the other men he has rounded up.

OoOoO

He’s so fucking relieved when Sam has gone. It’s been bred into him that he’s got to be strong in front of his brother but over the years it’s gotten harder and harder and that’s before he’s even gotten as sick as he feels now.

His guts are continuing their rebellion against the rest of his body and he curses that fucking taco again even though the small but perplexed part of his brain that calls itself ‘Dean Winchester’s memory’ keeps trying to remind him that they haven’t stopped anywhere for tacos in almost two months.

He lets that bemused voice fade into the fog, wishes he could go there himself because trying to deal with a demon and Sam and his fucking satanic co-pilot and his own body which clearly fucking hates him right now is _really fucking tiring._

He thinks he’d like some sleep but he knows, if he’s really honest with himself, that what he really, _really_ wants is a drink.

OoOoO

Sam and the other men find their bid for freedom is over before it’s begun. Solemn faces work in silence until it becomes clear that the door – the only exit from this subterranean sanctuary – is blocked from the other side.

They wait anxiously as Richard radios through to local law enforcement, which conveniently seems to be made up of several members of his own family. The news they receive isn’t good. The town has been hit dead on by the tornado and the destruction is catastrophic, including the community centre which from the outside appears to have been razed to the ground.

Richard’s brother-in-law, Bill, advises them to sit tight as with no casualties and a healthy inventory of supplies, they’ll be low on the priority list when it comes to rescue. Richard assures Bill that everyone is fine and that they’ll wait it out and pray that the rest of the townfolk have been equally fortunate, even if the buildings haven’t.

Richard then calls for everyone’s attention as he breaks the news. There are expressions of relief that there are no reported dead but everyone knows this could easily change. When Richard tells them they should probably get comfy for at least another twenty-four hours, Sam finds the eyes of the town’s doctor studying him and he wonders all over again what the hell he’s missing.

Then he realises that Dean isn’t with them. He hurries away from the group and finds his brother sitting on his bedroll staring at his hands, which are shaking as they dangle between his bent knees.

“Dean?”

“Huh, yeah?”

“Dude, I thought you were looking out for the demon?”

Dean looks at him like he doesn’t remember saying any such thing and hell, it’s not like it matters anyway.

“Yeah. Maybe we should call Bobby, see if he knows of any demons that don’t respond to ‘Christo’.”

Sam studies his brother and acknowledges that the lead shot of worry in his stomach has suddenly grown into something that could be fired out of a cannon.

“Dean,” he says tentatively, “do you know what you’ve just said?”

Before his brother can respond Sam hears a sharp bark of laughter from just beyond his peripheral vision and he clenches his fists tightly, determined not to give Lucifer the satisfaction by acknowledging him. Lucifer, evidently, doesn’t mind being ignored.

“Now how’s _that_ for a twist in the tale, huh, Sam? You thought you’d be the one to hit crazy town first but it seems like big brother’s beaten you to it! So do you still believe him about the demon now?”

And there’s the rub, because you know something is _seriously_ wrong when a hallucinated, smart-mouthed vision of the anti-Christ is a more reliable source of information than your brother. So _great_ , the demon isn’t in here with them, which gives them one less thing to worry about but then why would Dean be so convinced that it is and why the hell would he be talking about making a phone call to someone who died a couple of months ago?

He realises Dean hasn’t responded yet and when he looks down at his brother he’s alarmed to see Dean is now doubled over, clearly in agony.

“Sam... It really fucking hurts.”

Sam’s on his knees in an instant, ignoring the ‘boo hoo, poor baby’ comments Lucifer is making behind him.

“Okay, man, hang on. I’m gonna go get the doctor.”

Dean doesn’t attempt to stop him, giving Sam further indication of just how _not right_ his brother is and he’s cursing both himself for not noticing sooner and his brother for being such a martyr and not saying anything earlier.

He propels himself back to the group who, at his rapid approach, are aware that something is wrong but his eyes are fixed firmly on Sarah Gillespe and _fuck_ , she knew and she tried to help and _why the fuck was he so rude to her before?_

“I’ll get my things,” she says without preamble.

Sam can only watch in silence as Sarah takes Dean’s temperature and blood pressure and checks his vital signs. She’s asking Dean questions but his brother is increasingly out of it and what he _does_ say makes as much sense as suggesting they call Bobby for help.

When she’s finished her preliminary assessment she beckons Sam over and it’s clear she wants to talk to him in private even though the other residents of Bixby are respectfully keeping their distance. Or maybe they’re just staying clear of the crazy, Sam thinks idly.

“Do you know what’s wrong with my brother?” he asks quickly before he can remember that they’re supposed to be school friends and nothing more. She gives him a look that says she suspected as much but her features are still set in grim lines and he instantly knows he won’t like what she is about to say.

“Sam... I need you to answer me honestly.”

“Sure.”

“How much does your brother drink?”

“ _What_? Why does that-”

“ _Sam_. I need to know. I promise you I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. _Really_ important.”

Sam pushes his hands through his hair, panicked, because he can see in her face that she’s serious. “I... I don’t know. He drinks everyday; we both do. Beer mainly, and whiskey but lately... lately I think he’s been drinking in secret too so I don’t know. But he’s never _drunk_ if that makes any sense.”

“And do you know when he last had a drink?”

He gestures in frustration. “I don’t know. He has a flask but I think it’s been empty since we’ve been down here so probably at least twenty-four hours.”

She nods and even though he can’t give her any definite answers, he realises what he’s said has confirmed what she’s suspected all along.

“Sam,” she says gently. “There’s no easy way to say this but your brother is an alcoholic.” She raises her hands to forestall his imminent protest. “He’s what would be classed as a high-functioning alcoholic because it doesn’t overtly affect his daily life, but just because he’s not lying in a gutter somewhere stinking of urine and gut rot doesn’t mean it’s any less of a problem.”

She’s eyes him sharply but there’s sympathy too. “Dean is in what’s known as ‘hard detox’ – cold turkey if you like. He’s very ill because his body is used to regular, large amounts of alcohol and that hasn’t happened because he’s been down here. The lack of alcohol has sent his nervous system into overdrive, hence the shakes, the confusion. Unfortunately they’re only the milder symptoms.”

Sam breathes for a moment before he can trust his voice to speak. “How ill is he?”

“He could die, Sam.”

He studies his brother lying curled up on his side in pain and recalls moments in their recent history – his ‘Bad Santa’ crack when they were in Indiana before (what the fuck is _with_ this state?) and then ribbing Dean for his attachment to Bobby’s flask. It’s like all this time he’s been circling the issue but never really getting close enough for a proper look, presumably for fear of what he might find.

He turns his attention outwards again and back to Sarah. “If we can’t get him out of here, what can we do?”

The worry she reveals scares the crap out of him. “I can give him something for the pain and start him on some diazepam which will help control his withdrawal symptoms. The diazepam will also act as a sedative but he should be in a hospital, Sam. Detoxing can be dangerous without careful monitoring and the right medical intervention.” She hesitates, then says it anyway. “All we can do is make him comfortable and hope and prays that he’s strong enough to survive the next twenty-four hours.”

OoOoO

 Sam has excused himself to go to the bathroom. She could tell he didn’t want to leave his brother but sometimes willpower is not enough to outwit the requirements of the human body. Dean has been sleeping for the last hour or so, since she gave him the diazepam. A cold washcloth rests on his head as he vacillates between sweats and chills.

She studies his slack face and wonders what kind of life he’s had that has led him to seek comfort in drink. David’s path was clear – a relationship breakdown, the loss of his job and before any of them knew it, a beer here and there became mostly here and then he was lost to the bottle.

She doesn’t know how or why but she senses Dean’s story is different. She just hopes that she can help and that it’s not too late. One failure per lifetime is more than enough, after all.

Sam returns and hunches back down in the spot he vacated only minutes before. His eyes rove over his brother’s sleeping form as if he’s looking for any sign of change, be it good or bad. She’s noticed Sam’s eyes have a habit of flicking off to the side, as if he’s in silent communication with someone she can’t see or hear. A couple of times his expression has become pained after he’s done this and she fears for his mental state, particularly if anything happens to his brother.

She’s warned him that Dean’s clinical signs are not good, that everything, from the shakes to the confusion and hallucinations (because he definitely said something about demons) all point towards a man who is crashing and crashing _hard_ after abusing alcohol for a seriously long time.

She moves to take his blood pressure again – still high – and feels the leaden stare of his brother at her back. It’s almost intimidating but she knows deep down that she’s safe because she’s working to save the human thread that Sam seems to be hanging by, knowing that if it snaps it might see them both tumbling into the abyss.

OoOoO

When the first seizure happens, Sam is frozen in a mixture of terror and helplessness. Sarah administers more diazepam but it’s clear that she’s got limited tools to work with and her expression says this man should be in a hospital _now_.

He watches his brother as the convulsions thankfully fade away but knows from what Sarah has said that it they’re going to happen at all, then there will be more and it all adds to the increasingly bleak reality that Dean has become a fully-fledged alcoholic under his (admittedly distracted) nose.

Lucifer is hooting with delight at this point - _Can’t you feel the irony, Sam? All the monsters who’ve tried to kill him and failed and now he’s basically done their job for them! Sam? Hey, don’t you think that’s funny, Sam? Sam? -_ and he’s really struggling not to let Lucifer know that he’s starting to get to him.

Sarah has spoken to Richard to outline what’s happening and Sam has felt both the burn of shame that the older man has had to call his brother-in-law back to upgrade their situation to an emergency that has nothing to do with the tornado and the sting of indignation that the people they’re trapped with will be making all kinds of assumptions about his brother, who has spent almost all his life helping others.

“They’re good people you know. They wouldn’t be judging you,” Sarah says, as if she’s reading his thoughts. He doesn’t respond though because what’s the point in offending her? Instead he changes the subject to address the issue that’s been going around in his mind for a while now.

“You knew,” he says, turning to look at her. “Even early on you knew that Dean wasn’t just ill. Was it that obvious?”

“Well I _am_ a doctor,” she replies with a sad smile that says there’s more to her story. “But my brother, David, was an alcoholic so you could say I’ve a little first-hand experience.”

“What happened to him?” he asks and the pain in her eyes makes him wish he hadn’t.

“I’m afraid that story doesn’t have a happy ending, Sam.”

He looks at her, needing to know. She sighs heavily.

“It’s not happy but it _is_ pretty straightforward. He drank, some crap happened so he drank more and soon it became his way of life. He detoxed, a couple of times in fact, but the drink always won out. He choked to death on his own vomit before cirrhosis of the liver could finish him off.”

Sam nods, pondering the various scenarios that could clearly be part of Dean’s future, and for some reason feels like he needs to give some kind of explanation to this stranger who has chosen to help them. “What we do – me and Dean, for a living I mean, there’s a pretty good chance that neither of us will live long enough for liver damage to be a problem.”

She eyes him appraisingly but doesn’t interrupt and he continues as best he can because he _needs_ her to understand.

“Dean... Dean is an amazing guy,” he says and means it so badly _it hurts_. “After our mom died, he pretty much raised me; we had our dad, but he was... well, he was busy with work and it was often left to Dean to take care of me. He genuinely believed that I should come first and he sacrificed so much, from material things to opportunities when we were growing up just so I didn’t have to go without.

“Even now,” he says, glancing over at his gravely-ill brother, his smile bittersweet. “He _still_ thinks he should put me before himself. A lot’s happened to him over the last few years and I’ve tried to get him to talk about it but Dean deals with stuff by pushing it all down and dumping alcohol on top of it so he can keep going because if he stops, I think he knows he’ll fall apart.”

He realises his thoughts have become more introspective as he’s been speaking, so he stops and looks straight at her, forcing a smile.

“Anyway, like I said, our job” (and even he can’t disagree with Lucifer when the manifestation laughs at his choice of wording) “It’s dangerous, but it’s worthwhile because we help people and we save lives. Dean’s never _ever_ lost sight of that, even when things have been truly bad, he’s never tried to walk away from it.” His voice wavers. “He deserves so much better than he’s ever got in this life and he’s worth so much more than he knows.”

OoOoO

Six hours later and Dean shows signs of waking. Sam is over by his side like a shot as his brother blinks and looks around, desperately trying to get a fix on where he is.

“Sam?”

“I’m here, Dean. How you doing, man?”

“I’ve been better, if I’m honest,” Dean replies, struggling to sit up, but Sam holds him in place.

“Whoah, you’re not going anywhere, dude; doctor’s orders.”

“What about the demon?”

Sam glances around but fortunately Sarah has gone to speak to the others. “The demon’s not here, Dean.”

“What? But I saw-”

“A hallucination,” Sam cuts in.

“A hallucination? Isn’t that more your thing, Sammy?”

The attempted flippancy makes Sam bristle. “You’re hallucinating, Dean because you might be dying.” He knows he’s not going to win any awards for bedside manner but at least it wipes the stupid grin off his brother’s face.

“ _What?_ That’s crazy.”

“Yeah? Don’t you wanna know why? You’ve got alcohol withdrawal syndrome, Dean. It’s what alcoholics get when they stop drinking suddenly and like I said, you could die. You should be in the hospital so they can manage your symptoms but we’re trapped because of the damage the tornado has caused. There’s a rescue team working on getting _you_ out because it’s so serious.”

The ensuing silence lies heavy between them. Sam studies his brother’s face as Dean processes what he’s just been told.

“But I’m not an alcoholic,” Dean says eventually but it sounds weak to both their ears. “Sure I know I drink a lot, but you do too; Bobby did and Dad did. It’s just what hunters do, Sam. We don’t exactly have white picket fence lives do we?”

Sam nods, but he’s frustrated by how quickly Dean’s defences have snapped back into place. “But it’s not just that, is it? I mean, that flask of Bobby’s for example: you’re drinking from it like it’s going out of fashion and I’ve realised I don’t even see you re-filling it. And let’s talk about Bobby, shall we? You know you were just suggesting we call him to help us out here, don’t you? So you don’t think that you’ve got a problem when you can’t even remember that Bobby’s _dead_?”

Now Dean does look wounded because Sam knows Bobby’s death is just another thing that Dean has buried beneath alcohol so he doesn’t have to deal with it.

“You’ve got the fucking DTs, Dean. Your body’s shutting down just because you haven’t had a drink  for _less than a day_ so if you don’t think that’s bad then you’ve seriously lost perspective.”

Before Dean can remind him that him talking about ‘perspective’ is surely the pot calling the kettle black, Sarah approaches cautiously. Having caught the last part of their conversation she shoots Sam a look, a reminder that Dean’s not in any state for a family feud before turning a smile on her patient.

“Hi, Dean. I’m Sarah Gillespe one of Bixby’s physicians. I just want to run through a few tests with you if that’s okay? You were a little confused earlier, talking any demons. Nasty stuff.”

Dean glances at his brother but there’s no support there because even though she’s got the wrong end of the stick, he _was_ hallucinating about demons.

“Sure, Doc. Do your tests.”

Sam walks away while Sarah starts to ask Dean a series of questions. Clearly Lucifer is massively amused by some of them, because when Sarah asks ‘are you hearing things you know aren’t there?’ he roars with laughter.

“Hey, Sam,” the hallucination calls out to Sam’s retreating form. “You should be answering these questions you know. Imagine the answers you could give!”

Sam tunes it all out – and it’s difficult not to listen to Dean’s gruff tones because he wants to know how truthful Dean will be. However he also knows the chances of his brother being honest while he listens are slim to non-existent so he goes to see if there are any updates from the rescue party. Richard sees his approach and hurries over.

“How’s your friend doing?”

“He’s... hanging in there.”

“Sarah says she’s not sure what’s wrong with him,” Richard says sympathetically and Sam realises the doctor has deliberately withheld her diagnosis from the others and for that he could kiss her.

“Yeah. I’m really worried about him and I hate to ask but is there any sign of when we might be able to get out of here?”

“We’re working on it, son,” Richard replies, patting Sam’s shoulder reassuringly as the good doctor herself approaches.

“How’s he doing, Sarah?” Richard asks.

She nods in greeting and gives him a tight smile. “As well as can be expected, Richard but I’m afraid it’s still essential we get him to a hospital as soon as possible. I wonder if I could just have a word with Sam for a moment?”

Richard knows what she’s asking and takes his leave. He’s barely gone when Sam rounds on her. “What’s wrong? Is Dean okay?”

“His condition’s unchanged,” she replies, wishing she could give him better news. “Now he’s more lucid the answers he’s given me are just further indication that he’s still in grave danger. I’ve talked to him, explained everything and told him our only option is to continue with the diazepam.”

“But?” he says as she hesitates.

“But, he won’t let me give him any more.”

“What? Why the hell not?”

Sarah sighs, wondering all over again how these two boys ended up with such a bleak life. “The idea of using benzodiazepines to treat alcohol withdrawal is they mimic the effects of alcohol to stop the body reacting to the withdrawal.”

“Sounds logical.”

“It certainly can be successful but it needs to be given at half hour intervals, effectively keeping him lightly sedated. It was at this point that Dean refused. I need you to talk to him, Sam. He’s at risk of heart failure without treatment and if his condition worsens I won’t be able to manage it here.”

Sam takes a long, weary breath as he runs his hands through his hair. “Okay. Just give me a few minutes with him, okay?”

She nods and tells him she’s going to check on her kids. Sam takes another deep breath and makes his way back to his brother, furious but aware he’s going to need to keep his anger in check if he’s to get Dean to change his mind as no argument with his brother has ever been won by force. He’s vaguely aware of Lucifer calling him ‘House M.D’ as he prepares to deal with Sarah’s recalcitrant patient.

Dean’s sitting up toying with the bottle of water Sarah has given him. He attempts a grin but it’s a poor imitation of what Dean can do when the expression is genuine and it fades quickly under Sam’s angry gaze.

“I’m not having the drugs, Sam.”

“Yeah? You wanna give me one good reason?”

“Sure, if it makes you feel better. You – okay?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, _you_. That lady doctor is talking about keeping me knocked out until they can get me to a hospital. Now I know you said the demon’s not down here, but I know you’re still giving Satan a piggyback so how the hell can I look out for you if I’m unconscious, huh?”

“You can’t look out for me _now_ , Dean. Look at you!” he says, gripping Dean’s arm to bring it up to eye level where they can both see that his hand is shaking badly. “You think this helps?”

Dean’s eyes cut away quickly but he doesn’t interrupt or argue. After a moment Sam continues, his voice softer and more controlled this time.

“Please, Dean. You’re not wrong – I _do_ need you. But not like this, so please, _please_ do as Sarah asks and let her help you.”

“But-”

“But I’m _managing_ , Dean and you’ve gotta trust that I can do this without you while you get treatment.” He looks straight at his brother now. “Because that’s exactly what I’ll have to do if you die because you drank yourself to death.”

OoOoO

He listens to the sounds around him but it’s still hard to focus as his mind lurches every now and again, like a bike chain that’s come loose, catching only to slip again a second later. Sam’s gone to get the doctor – her name is Sandra or Sarah or something – who’s going to turn him into a human pin cushion for however long they’re stuck here.

He still doesn’t want to do this, even though he desperately needs a break from the incessant itch of wanting/needing/wanting a drink, because he’s _so fucking tired_ of trying to convince it that he would do as it asked if he could. But it means leaving Sam to fend for himself, a feeling that is so _wrong_ and so alien to him that it penetrates his very core and threatens to undo him from the inside out.

Sam’s right though because leaving his brother alone for twenty-four or forty-eight hours has _got_ to be better than leaving him for the rest of his life because he’s _dead._ And there’s no guardian angel to resurrect him this time; he knows this for certain because any being that has his best interests at heart would not have let Bobby die since the old man’s death has splintered what’s left of his already fragile heart.

So he’s going to let the doctor treat him. He knows he’ll wake up in a hospital somewhere and they’ll be talking about rehab and A.A and where he goes from here and equally he knows that the answer will be right out the door to the nearest Seven-Eleven in order to re-stock because, if he’s honest, all he’s really learned from this experience is to make sure he doesn’t let his flask run dry again.

He can see it plainly now - he’s got an addiction and Sam will want him to quit too but his little brother will have to remain disappointed because its grip is too tight and his life is too shit for him to really want to change right now. He’ll try and cut back though – for Sam, because it’s _always_ for Sam really – and he’ll have to hope that that will be enough for his brother. It’ll _have_ to be enough because after Cas and Bobby and _everything,_ he’s nothing else to give.

OoOoO

Dean is sedated for a total of eighteen hours by the time the rescue party reaches them. Sam throws himself into helping from his end – it keeps Lucifer out of his hair and enables him to feel like he’s giving something back. When help arrives, Sarah is once again tactful in her explanation to the EMTs and Dean is whisked away without any of the people they’ve been holed up with knowing the real reason why he is so ill.

Sam offers his gratitude to Sarah and everyone who has taken care of them and it’s heartfelt because since their support network has diminished, a caring, friendly face has been hard to come by. She gives him that perceptive look again and tells him she hopes they stay safe. Sam nods and assures her that they won’t be leaving town until they’ve resolved the issue they came to Bixby to deal with and even though she may never know what it was, it will be for the benefit of the entire community.

But he senses that she gets that already.

Amazingly the tornado hasn’t claimed any lives but there are a number of injuries amidst the devastating destruction. Despite this, Dean is given excellent care at the hospital and Sarah calls to check up on them both once the other residents have been cleared to leave the community centre’s basement.

As Dean had predicted, they want to talk to him about counselling and residential rehab programmes where he can get the help he needs. They use the words ‘alcohol-dependent’ in sympathetic tones, as if calling him an alcoholic will somehow offend him.

He ignores their words and his brother’s leaden gaze and discharges himself without actually telling them he’s leaving so he can bypass the usual ‘against medical advice’ lecture.

He’s not proud when he makes Sam stop at a store so he can re-fill Bobby’s flask. Sam doesn’t say anything but he knows from the way his brother’s eyes flick to the rear view mirror that Lucifer is probably giving his two cents from the backseat. He doesn’t try to explain how he can _feel_ his equilibrium restoring after the very first mouthful because he’s pretty sure Sam won’t want to hear it.

They gank the demon and leave town the day after, having already caught scent of a potential hunt in Oregon. They’ve driven over two hundred miles before Dean brings the car to a stop in the dirt at the side of the road and the silence fills the car so acutely Sam realises he doesn’t remember when his brother switched off the music.

“I know what you want from me, Sam,” Dean says, his hands gripping the wheel to avoid drawing attention to how they still shake. “And you’ve got to believe me when I say I would do anything within my power to give it to you, but I just _can’t_. I thought about promising you that I’d quit drinking but I realised I’d just be lying to you, and after Amy... well, I know what that does to you and I know what it does to me.

“So my best offer is that I’ll try to cut down. I’ll not hide it from you and I’ll go along with any of your hare-brained schemes to try and help me quit because it’s how you work when you get something in your head and I know it’s not a great promise or even a _good_ promise, but it’s the only one I can make right now so please, Sam, I know I’m asking a lot of you with all the shit you’ve got going on, but I need to know that you won’t ask any more of me than that because if you ask me for any more... well, then I’m going to let you down.”

He chances a glance at his brother because he needs an answer, good or bad and when Sam looks at him and nods he knows his brother is still with him and if anything, that one small gesture gives him the strength to try to keep his promise.

Sam, for his part, will agree to his brother’s request because he knows Dean will always offer more than he is truly okay with giving and his brother _will_ give it his best shot simply because it’s for him. And Sam might not like that Dean won’t do it for himself and it might not be A.A or the Twelve Steps or a rainbow-tinted happy ending with sobriety as the pot of gold at its end, but it’s a start - a tiny glimmer of hope or a chance of something better – and in a life as tough as theirs, even a start is _something_.

 

**The End**


End file.
